Spell of the Witch World (Witch World Series)

  She gestured to the open chest. “Herbs. I have some small skill in their growing and usage, my lord. Now I check my store against the need for savor or scent. But—” she went to place the packet with the others— “since we shall have no feast, I need not concern myself with such.”

  “I am truly rebuked, my lady, that I have been so apart from you since our homecoming—and that I have not taken heed of the passing of time nor the fact that this feast was near. Forgive me this time and I shall not err again.”

  Instinct told her that these were merely words and that his feeling for her was such that he believed vague promises would always satisfy her as they might a child.

  He went after several more meaningless words of courtesy and she watched from the window as he rode with his men-at-arms. Ninque came in shortly with a bronze bowl. In it was a necklace of many pendants. Their design alternated greenish and bluish amber. She guessed that the piece was a rarity, perhaps worth all the portable goods in the Uppsdale Hold.

  Ysmay put the necklace on before a mirror. She simulated pleasure, calling Ninque and the two wenches who came with her supper to see how fine a gift her lord had sent her. She hoped her acting was good enough to deceive Ninque.

  She had fastened her sleeve bands tightly at the wrist and there was no chance of the woman spying what she wore there. When Ysmay sat down to eat she filled a horn cup and half raised it to her lips. Then she shook her head.

  “I do not speak ill of your brewing,” she said lightly. “But were mint added this would be a better drink. Have you ever drunk it so?”

  “We know not much of southern herbs in these parts, lady. Our Quayth is in the path of too chill winds to let such grow. Mint I have heard of, but of its use so, that I have not.”

  “Then you shall taste and tell me whether or no you think I speak the truth. This is a feast eve among my people, Ninque. Since my lord cannot keep it with me, perhaps you will—”

  For a moment the woman hesitated. Between her lips the tip of a pale tongue showed for an instant. Then her eyes, those ever-watchful eyes, went to the pitcher on the table.

  “There is not enough for a second cup, my lady. You have ever refused more than one, so the wench did not bring it.”

  “Then have one of them fetch more, Ninque. Do not deny me even this poor revel on a feast eve.”

  Ninque turned to the stair reluctantly as one who had no excuse for doing otherwise, but would refuse if she could. Ysmay raised her horn again. She could detect in it only the odor of a good brew. But she was as sure as if someone stood at her shoulder speaking a warning, that there was something more in it Poison? No, that she did not credit. But there were growing things which could be used in cunning ways, to bring deep sleep, to haze the wits so that memory would after play one false.

  Why so sharp a suspicion came to her now, she was not to know. She knew only that she was warned.’ No sooner had Ninque gone than Ysmay was moved to action she did not understand. She unfastened her sleeve, held her bared wrist above the cup.

  Instantly the serpent moved, but now its action made her more curious than afraid—even excited her as the prospect of battle might excite a fighting man.

  The head of the serpent darted down to dip in the liquid, stirring it Then it snapped up, once more catching the tip of its tail in its mouth, and hardening into a bracelet.

  Ninque came up the stair with a tray on which sat a horn cup which she placed on the table. Ysmay went to her chest. Mint, yes, but she palmed another herb as well, with a skill at concealment she would not have believed herself capable of. While it was mint alone that she sprinkled in her own cup, the mint was mingled with another powder to flavor Ninque's. Then she took up a small spoon to stir each well

  “By rights, Ninque—” she smiled—"being both women, we should have a sprig of ivy to dip in this for luck, then to fling into the fire to take all evil fortune with it. For my lord it would be holly—but ivy is for women. Since we have it not, I bid you good fortune.”

  “And so I do wish you, Lady,” said Ninque.

  Ysmay drank, though it was hard with that suspicion within her. How effective had the serpent been to counteract anything wrong—she did not know. But she was convinced that in its way the serpent was her protection, since Gunnora's charm had not repelled it.

  “What think you of mint?” She had emptied her cup, set it aside.

  Ninque put down her own.

  “It has a fresh and pleasing taste, Lady. Your southern growths must be strong. Now—if you will excuse me—I must see to the wenches. You spoke of a feast and my lord was ashamed he had forgotten. But we shall do the best we can for the morrow.”

  “Which is right courteous. But true to the favor my lord has shown me. Yes, you may go, Ninque. I shall bed early, I think. For some reason I am sleepy.”

  Was she right in her guess—that the doctored drink was meant to drug her? She could read no change in Ninque's expression.

  But after the woman had gone, Ysmay once more loosened her sleeve and held the serpent at eye level. This time it did not open any vision for her.

  “I know not what is wanted of me,” she addressed the carving in a whisper. “But there are many mysteries in Quayth, and perhaps danger of more than one land. I cannot draw sword, but neither do I bend my neck to the yoke willingly. Whatever is to be laid upon me, let it begin here and now, for it is better to face danger squarely, than to wait for its coming while courage grows thin.”

  In the long moment of silence thereafter it came into her mind what must be done. She arose, put aside her outer garments, and donned her riding skirt which gave her greater freedom of movement. And she took her cloak of gray.

  At the head of the stairs she listened and, when there was no sound below, she moved. She had learned that those sections of building uniting the towers were the quarters of the hooded people. With any luck Ninque and the wenches were safely back in their own.

  Ysmay had to use both hands to draw open the outer door. The quickest way to the angled tower was straight across the courtyard. But she had no mind to reveal her going to any at some window.

  Instead she slipped along the wall, her cloak and skirt dragging in the drifted snow until she reached the door to Hylle's stronghold. The hand she raised to its latch was the one above the serpent.

  There was no lock. The door swung easily, perhaps too easily, to her pull

  5

  A ROOM OF sharp angles was but dimly lighted. Ysmay gasped, for facing her was a cloaked figure. Then she raised her serpent-girdled arm, and that other copied her gesture. She realized she fronted a mirror.

  But for the mirror and two lamps high in wall niches, there was nothing—save smell. Her nose tingled at the war of strange odors here. Some might have been pleasing, but they were nigh overcome by acrid whiffs she could not identify.

  She turned slowly, peering into those dusky angles. By her survey she discovered what could not be seen from the courtyard, that this tower had been erected in the form of a five-pointed star. She had a vague recollection of ancient lore concerning such a star.

  However it was not this bare, shadowed room she sought. Seeing a stairway within one of the angles, she ascended. The steps were worn in depressions, as if from long use. In fact the whole interior of this tower carried the weight of years in its stones, as if a toll of centuries had settled upon it.

  Thus Ysmay came into a chamber crowded with such a wealth of things as she could not sort into any understandable array. There were tables filled with curls of metal piping, with retorts, with bottles and flagons —some of which she recognized as akin to those used in herb distilling. And there were things she could not name at all.

  She feared to touch anything. For that mingling of odors was very great, almost overpowering, bringing more than a hint of danger. Ysmay rubbed her fingers across the serpent.

  For some reason it was lighter here, enough to show still another stair. Ysmay took care in crossing to it, threadin
g a way by those littered tables, holding tight her cloak lest she brush something from one of them.

  So she came up to the room of her vision. Here were the pillars forming first an outer star, and then an inner. Against the far wall were two tables. At the point of each star row were candlesticks as high as her own shoulder. In each burned a candle wrist thick. The flames were not honest red-gold, but bluish, making her own flesh look unhealthy and diseased.

  Her hand went forth of its own accord. Someone might have held a chain fastened to her wrist, jerked it without warning, to draw her. She walked between two of the outer pillars, coming so to the center.

  Before her was the woman of her vision, and the man who was Hylle, yet not Hylle. Imprisoned though they were, their eyes lived, fastened avidly on her as if they strove to cry aloud what must be done. Yet if they had had the power to bring her here, that power was limited, for no message reached her.

  But she could not doubt what they wanted—their freedom. Could people be so encased and yet live? This was magic such as she had met only in old legends.

  “What must I do?” she begged them. She touched the surface of the pillar which encased the woman. To her fingers it was solid. Broken? Cut? Amber was a soft material, easily worked. A knife might chip away its substance.

  Ysmay drew her belt knife, used the point in a hacking blow, only to have good steel rebound as if she had struck at a stone. The force jarred her arm. Not even a scratch was left on the surface of the pillar.

  That there was a way to free them she did not doubt, but it must lie in magic. She stepped away and turned slowly around, surveying the whole group of pillars set star within star. The blue light made even more fantastic the grotesque heads and bodies. But she forced herself to a full inspection.

  Those of the outer star were not human, but a mixture of weird forms. The second star held more humanoid figures, half of them small, squat, wearing tunics like men.

  Their bodies were thick, wide of shoulder, arms long, out of proportion. From their fingers and toes protruded long curved claws, closer to the talons of some bird or animal than to a human nail. Their faces—these surely had kinship with Ninque's people.

  Nails, squat shapes—Ysmay fitted what she saw to make a thought which brought a shiver to her. The hooded men with their gloves—Hylle's followers who kept, or were kept, apart from the Dalespeople. Was this their real appearance? But why were these few pillar-bound?

  It was a relief to look back to the wholly human forms of the man and woman. Once more their eyes burned, besought— If she could only understand what she could do—must do!

  Those eyes were closing! There was a shade of intense concentration on their faces. Impulsively Ysmay raised her hand, shook back her sleeve so that the serpent was free. Because once before she had looked into its eyes with strange results, she did so again.

  Larger—larger—now she stared at a single yellow globe, clean, free from the blue taint of the others. This time no window formed through which she viewed another place. Rather there was a whispering voice. Because she sensed that what it would tell her was of utmost importance, she strained to catch words, to make coherence of the sound. But there was no intelligible message. And at last the whisper died away.

  She swayed. Her back and her feet ached, as did her head. She might not only have stood in that position for a length of time, but she felt as if she had concentrated on some mental exercise too hard for her. Ysmay sighed and let her stiff arm fall to her side.

  The eyes of those in the pillars were open, but they were dull, dimmed. No longer was there that spark of vigorous demand. Whatever they had tried had failed.

  Still she could not leave them. The knife had failed, and communication. With some vague hope of finding assistance, she made her way among the pillars to those tables she had sighted at her entrance.

  They did not bear such utensils as she had seen below. But still—at least on one table—she did not like what she saw.

  On it stood a cup. The foot was amber, dark, cracked, worn and warped. Its bowl was of a gray-white material. The interior was stained. Beside it, naked point to the stars, was a knife, its hilt the gray of the bowl, its blade— Ysmay jerked away, for along the blade crawled and writhed lines of red, as if runes of some forbidden knowledge formed, vanished, ran again.

  There was a book, laid open at midpoint. Its pages were yellowed, wrinkled, inscribed with heavy black lines of writing unlike any she had seen before. There was one ornamented capital on each page, but not wreathed by flowers like those in old chronicles. No, here were two small scenes which brought a flush of shame to her face as she looked upon them, so vile were they, yet so ably done that they lingered hatefully in the mind.

  Here also was an upright frame in which hung a bell of discolored metal, and beside it the mallet which would make it sound. Last of all was a candle-holder so wrought that once more she flushed. The candle it held was misshapen, beginning as one thick piece and then subdividing into five thinner portions of unequal length.

  Evil hung so strongly here Ysmay could believe it visible as a black cloud. She backed away, thus coining to the second board. What lay there was different-irregular lumps of amber new taken from bedding. She thought she could even recognize those which had been passed from hand to hand at Uppsdale. There were few enough of them, very small showing compared with the wealth in those pillars.

  The evil things, which Ysmay did not doubt were used for black ensorcelment, the rough amber— She had seen enough to guess that Hylle wrought ill here. And she was oath-tied to him!

  Black indeed were the tales she had heard. There were men reported to have dealings with the older powers rooted here. Was Quayth a garden that brought forth evil harvest?

  On impulse Ysmay drew forth the amulet of Gunnora. The old shadowed ways were those which dealt with death and destruction, but Gunnora stood for life and light. How much protection lay in her talisman, Ysmay could not guess. But she felt stronger for holding it.

  A table of amber lumps, another which was a shrine to vile powers, and the prisoners in the pillars. Also— when Hylle returned what would be her fate? She tried to think clearly and to some purpose.

  This was a fateful night, one of the four within the year when certain powers were loosed for good or ill. Hylle had fared forth. What did he seek out in the cold and the night? Some greater force than any he could raise within these walls?

  Ysmay turned once more to look upon the double star of the pillars, the blue burning candles. Power was locked herein. Why had she been able to pass freely through any safeguard Hylle must have set? For such places had their guards which humankind dared not meddle with.

  Was it a trap, and she had been allowed to Walk in? That she must test! Gripping Gunnora's amulet, Ysmay hurried for the stairs, turning her face from the two in the pillars as she passed. Down she went without hindrance into the ground floor chamber—

  Only to stop in fear. For the mirror on the wall reflected another form. It stood unmoving, neither advancing to cut her off from the door, nor to seize her.

  Horrible it was, but now she could see it was no creature living, but rather a tall carving of amber, wrought into demon form. Whence had it come? Who had brought it here?

  She sped past it to the door, gave a great push. To her vast relief the door swung open readily and the fresh cold air of night was like freedom itself.

  Once more she rounded the walls and gained her own tower. She slipped inside breathing quickly, looking for Ninque or one of the wenches.

  Empty—the coals on the hearth gave enough light to make sure. Ysmay scuttled for the stairs, won to her bedchamber, crossed to the window to look out. Had any tracked her from the star tower? If so, they had left no footprints in the snow that was now being whirled about by a rising wind. With luck its shifting would cover her path.

  She sat down on the bed and tried to make sense of all she had seen. Hylle had told her he was both astrologer and alchemist. The se
cond chamber of the star tower, with all that clutter of equipment, could be the work place of an alchemist. Such learning was in the bonds of reason, though few of the Dalesmen had it

  But the top chamber was different. Ysmay rubbed her hands across her eyes, remembering far too well that which lay on the first table—the foul book, all the rest. What was done there was not the result of straightforward learning.

  As for the prisoners in the pillars, most had shown no signs of life. But she had not lingered to examine them closely. However, she was sure that the man and the woman were held in some foul ensorcelment. She must think—if Hylle had the power to do that, what chance had she against him?

  She could creep out of Quayth perhaps this night Creep—to die of cold and exposure in the wilds. She had no chance without supplies or plan to survive the long journey back to the Dales. Sure death one way— but to stay might mean worse than death. She must chance that

  Ysmay laid aside her cloak, undressed, putting her garments back in a chest so Ninque might not remark them later. Then she crawled into bed, drawing tight the curtains, so that she lay in a darkness which for that moment felt safe. But the serpent was still on her wrist. And around her neck Gunnora's charm.

  Perhaps she slept. Afterward she could not remember. Then, as if someone had summoned her, she sat up. The dark was gone. Instead there was dim twilight within the tent of the curtains. Somehow she was able to see the pictures there.

  Ysmay had thought their patterning had been given only on the outer side, facing the room. But here they glowed, as if their half-lost outlines were drawn in the cold, clear light of starshine. They were of many kinds, but notable among them was a face. The woman in the pillar!

  To her great surprise and fear, the lips writhed on the face, as if a portrait worked with needle and thread fought for speech. And Ysmay heard a small sound, like a gasp for breath.